Letters from Cuba

by Ruth Behar

  At first my classmates treated me as if I’d been living in the jungle for the past year. They didn’t understand why I hadn’t gone to school. They asked if I spent my days hanging from the trees eating bananas. They finally stopped teasing me when I told them about Señor Eduardo and how there are Nazis even in Cuba. Many have family back in Europe that they worry about and wish could come to Cuba. I told them about you, Malka, and about Mama and Bubbe and our brothers, and that you are on your way.

  I hope I will make friends eventually, but right now I just want to help Papa get everything ready for all of you. After school each day, I go back to the store and work with Papa, helping him sell the fabric. We sold a lot at the end of December. Women bought fabric to make special clothes for New Year’s Eve and for Three Kings’ Day, which is celebrated on January 6, with gifts for the children. Now sales have dwindled a bit, but Papa says that sales always pick up when I’m around. I make more of an effort to sell the fabric, showing customers everything we have in stock and giving them ideas about sewing.

  My dresses have sold out, which is good, but I have to find time to make more. I only have the evenings and Sundays free, since we keep the store open on Saturdays, which Papa doesn’t like, but we can’t afford to lose all the customers who like to shop that day. We close a little early on Friday, which is “el día de los pobres,” the day the poor go around to the stores in the old part of Havana asking for charity. Everyone gives them one penny, but I give them each two pennies. We get a challah, and Papa and I say the blessing, and then Papa goes to synagogue. He doesn’t insist I go with him, and that makes me love Papa even more.

  While he’s at religious services, I wait for him on the seawall of the Malecón next to the port where the ships dock. I watch people disembark, imagining the day you’ll be one of them. I love feeling the sea breeze on my face and seeing my dress flutter in the wind. Couples, young and old, sit close to one another on top of the wall. Fishermen throw their lines far into the ocean. Passing musicians strum old Cuban melodies on their guitars.

  The sky is dark, but the first stars are very bright when Papa comes to meet me after he’s done praying. We slowly make our way back to our new home in Havana, floating like in a dream.

  Waiting anxiously to see you,

  ESTHER

  HAVANA

  January 16, 1939

  Dear Malka,

  Today you should all be on board the Orduña. Papa has not received any news from Mama, so we hope you made it and are doing well.

  We went to the travel office early this morning and spoke to the woman with the long braid who sold us the steamship tickets, but she said she isn’t allowed to share information about the passengers.

  “The Orduña will arrive ten days from now in Havana,” she told us. Then she added, “Ten days . . . unless anything unexpected happens at sea.”

  She crossed herself and that scared me.

  Then she looked around nervously. After making sure no one was listening, she whispered to us, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s in the newspapers.” She pointed to an article in the Diario de la Marina. “There are rumors the government is going to close the door to Hebrew refugees. They think there are too many refugees and they’re taking jobs away from Cubans.”

  Papa said, “But you sold us the steamship tickets.”

  “We’re selling steamship tickets to anybody who wants to buy them. We’re salespeople. We just hope that the government will let everyone who has a ticket and a visa enter the island.”

  Oh, Malka, how our hearts sunk to hear this. We’ve worked so hard to bring you all to Cuba, to be reunited as a family. And now, was it possible that the hatred has settled here and that you might arrive at the port and not be allowed in?

  The woman with the long braid looked at me with pity. “I am very sorry, señorita. As I said, these are just rumors. Let’s not start worrying yet. Let’s pray your family makes a safe journey.”

  Papa and I left the travel office so sad that neither of us could speak.

  In the evening, before I sat down to write this letter, I listened intently to Papa’s prayers and told myself I was going to have to pray more too.

  With all my love,

  ESTHER

  HAVANA

  January 22, 1939

  Dear Malka,

  These are the prayers that come to my lips and I whisper them to myself.

  I pray the sea is calm and you are not seasick.

  I pray that every now and then there is a smile on Mama’s face and she becomes filled with hope for the new beginning awaiting her in Cuba.

  I pray Bubbe knows how eagerly Papa, her only child, waits for her. Just like a little boy.

  I pray Moshe, Eliezer, and Chaim are behaving and not fighting with one another and being kind to you. It’s not easy to be the only sister. When you’re here, there will be two of us!

  I pray you will soon gaze at the seagulls flying over the beaches of the Caribbean islands surrounded by the turquoise sea.

  I pray you will come to love Cuba and its people as much as I do.

  I pray the distance that has kept us apart melts away the moment we meet again.

  I pray we will meet again.

  With all my love,

  ESTHER

  HAVANA

  January 26, 1939

  Dear Malka,

  This letter is not what I expected to be writing on the day that your ship finally arrived. I thought we’d hug and kiss and our lives would go on. But our lives are a mystery, Malka. As much as we try to control everything, sometimes all we can do is pray . . .

  It was still dark when Papa and I went to wait for all of you at the port at Triscornia. I held a bouquet of fragrant white gardenias as we stood outside the building through which you and the other immigrants must pass. There was already a crowd and everyone was nervous. We watched, like one set of eyes, as the Orduña crossed the harbor of Havana and dropped anchor. Papa clasped his prayer book against his heart. All of us had the same prayer on our lips—Please, please, let them disembark.

  Then the health inspectors went on board. And we waited.

  The sun rose in the sky. Soon it got unbearably hot. We were hungry and thirsty, but none of us moved, not willing to risk losing our precious spots near the entrance.

  Slowly passengers began to trickle from the ship and into the immigration building. We all searched desperately for a glimpse of our loved ones amid the swarms of people in their heavy woolen clothing and shoes. Shouts of joy broke the silence whenever someone exclaimed that they’d caught sight of a relative. I looked and looked, but it was far away and I couldn’t see any of you.

  Papa and I waited and waited.

  We stood there until the sun slipped into the sea and the night came. Then someone in the crowd announced that no one would be released from Triscornia until the next day.

  You can imagine with what sadness we went home.

  On the ferry back to Havana, I carried the white gardenias I’d not been able to give you. As we crossed the sea, I saw the shrine to the Virgin of Regla and remembered she was also Yemayá and the sea was her home. Malka, in that moment, I could hear the drums from Agramonte calling to Yemayá, asking for help. I glanced at Papa and saw him with his eyes closed and lips moving silently as he said his Jewish prayers. I couldn’t lose hope. I’d worked so hard and with so much love to bring you all to Cuba.

  Now I am awake in the middle of the night, writing to you, and I wonder if my efforts have been in vain.

  Hope—where have you gone?

  Hope—have you flown away?

  From your despairing sister,

  ESTHER

  HAVANA

  January 27, 1939

  Dear Malka,

  Papa and I barely slept, and at the crack of dawn, we returned to the port. I
carried the white gardenias to give to you, though they’d lost their sweet fragrance.

  Suddenly, we heard a boy’s voice yell, “Papa!”

  It was Moshe. He rushed into Papa’s arms. Then he smiled and widened his eyes at me and said, “You’re all grown up! You’re showing your arms and legs!”

  “We’re in Cuba, Moshe. Impossible to be covered up like in Poland!”

  Eliezer and Chaim came next, also yelling, “Papa! Papa!” and hugged him with such force, I feared they’d crush him.

  At last Mama came. She looked tired and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  “Mama!” I yelled, and ran up to her.

  “Esther!” she said to me with a pained smile, and I saw that my beautiful blue-eyed mother was missing a front tooth.

  She collapsed into my arms and started crying. Papa came over and held her in his arms, but she kept on crying.

  “Avrumaleh, Avrumaleh,” she said, using her nickname for Papa.

  She was crying from happiness, but she was also crying from sadness.

  “Where is Bubbe?” I asked. “Where is Malka?”

  Moshe and Eliezer and Chaim bowed their heads and stood around us in a circle. They waited for Mama to give the answer.

  “Bubbe didn’t come with us. She stayed in Govorovo,” Mama said.

  Papa let out a wail. Gasping for breath, he asked, “My mother? My dear sweet mother isn’t here?”

  “No, Avrumaleh, she isn’t here. She said she was too tired and old to make such a long journey. Just getting to the ship was going to wear her out. A trip across the ocean to Cuba would surely kill her. And how could she go to Cuba and abandon the graves of her mother and father in Govorovo? She refused to leave her home. She gave us her blessing. She told me to tell you to forgive her. She hopes one day we will all return to Poland and be reunited there.”

  Tears slid down Papa’s cheeks and Mama hugged him. “I am sorry, Avrumaleh, I am sorry,” she said.

  I stood there in silence with Moshe and Eliezer and Chaim, tasting the bitterness of the salt in the sea mist.

  Then Mama went on, “Malka was miserable on the ship. She couldn’t stop worrying about Bubbe and was seasick the whole journey. She barely ate and most of what she did she threw up. They’ve called a special doctor to determine whether she will be allowed to stay. Hopefully they’ll finish the examination soon. If she’s too ill, they may send her back.”

  Malka, dear Malka, it broke my heart to hear Mama say those words. But I understood how much it hurt you to leave our beautiful Bubbe, who has lived with us since we were born. I don’t want you to feel like you have to carry alone all the sadness of the world we needed to leave behind. We are here for you!

  Papa took Mama by the elbow. “Let’s not lose faith. Malka is a young and sensitive girl. She feels things deeply, she is in pain, but she will recover.”

  And so we all continued to wait for you, dear Malka.

  “Do you want me to take some of you home to rest for a few hours and return later?” Papa asked.

  But after the long separation, none of us wanted to be apart again.

  It was the middle of the afternoon, the hottest time of the day, when the streets become deserted as people rush home to rest in darkened rooms or sit in outdoor cafeterias drinking tall glasses of cool coconut water under awnings that offer the blessing of shade. Papa got us some cold sodas and we found a spot where the sun wasn’t so bright. There, Papa and Mama, Moshe, Eliezer, Chaim, and I stood looking out at the ocean silently, a family missing two of its limbs, wishing for a bit of happiness.

  Then a girl who looked like you came slowly toward us, watching her every step as if there was quicksand underneath that could pull her to the center of the earth and swallow her whole. This girl was thinner and frailer than the Malka I remembered. Her woolen dress hung on her like a potato sack and she looked like she’d forgotten how to laugh. She wore glasses too big for her face. And I realized it was you, dear Malka, it was you!

  You fell into my arms like a sparrow with broken wings.

  “Esther, I missed you.”

  That was all you had the strength to say in a whisper of Yiddish.

  You could barely clasp the bouquet of gardenias.

  “Let’s go to your new home,” Papa said. He put his arm around you and looked at you, Malka, with such love in his eyes. “Now you will rest, my child, and soon you will feel better.”

  After we got off the ferry in Havana, we waded through the thick heat of the streets. Mama leaned against Papa with each step she took. She was twice his size, but he held her up. Moshe, Eliezer, and Chaim carried the suitcases. I led the way, pointing out the potholes so no one would trip and fall, never letting go of your hand, dear Malka, because I feared if I did, you would disappear like a ghost.

  We turned off the Plaza Vieja and headed up Calle Muralla. There we bumped into Zvi Mandelbaum.

  “The family has arrived! Mazel tov!” he said.

  “Thank you,” Papa replied. “They have had such a long journey, but we will visit with you another time.”

  We smiled at Zvi Mandelbaum and kept walking briskly, relieved to not have to explain that we were missing Bubbe, our dearest, sweetest grandmother.

  My heart beat fast as we turned the corner and arrived at Calle Sol, the street of our new home. I was happy we’d live on a street called “Sun.” I hoped for sunny days ahead for all of us.

  Papa stopped in front of the building and said to Mama, “Here, downstairs, is our store, dear Hannah, and upstairs is the apartment where we will live.” He unlocked the door to the store and Mama peeked inside. I could tell Papa was eagerly waiting to see what Mama would say. She began to smile and immediately put her hand to her mouth to cover it because of her missing front tooth. But we could hear the happiness in her voice as she said, “It’s marvelous! So many fabrics! And in all the colors of the rainbow!”

  Then we climbed the stairs to the apartment, Moshe, Eliezer, and Chaim racing to the top and the rest of us following behind. Papa opened the door and all of us kissed the mezuzah for good luck before stepping inside. Papa and I had swept and mopped and dusted the apartment from top to bottom, and the wooden furniture gleamed in the golden rays of the late-afternoon sunshine. Again, dear Papa stood close to Mama, waiting to see what she’d say. She looked around, then said, “I feared I was traveling to a jungle. But Havana is a pretty city, and this house feels like it could be a home for all of us one day.”

  Papa beamed with joy and said, “Oh, my Hannah, it will be!”

  Moshe, Eliezer, and Chaim found their room and excitedly jumped from bed to bed. When I showed you ours, you noticed there were three beds there too. “Let’s not touch Bubbe’s bed,” you said. “Maybe she will change her mind and come to Cuba soon.”

  “That’s what we’ll do, Malka,” I responded.

  And I showed you our common rooms—the kitchen and the sitting room with the two rocking chairs, from where you’ll catch the sea breeze off the small but beautiful balcony and see Havana arise at dawn and go to sleep at night.

  “I have been taking care of the plants on the balcony. Aren’t they the greenest green? Look at how the orchids enjoy basking in their little square of sunshine!”

  You looked, but you couldn’t see yet; you were too worn from the journey.

  “Malka, as I promised, I’ve been writing letters to you this entire year that we’ve been apart. We will sit side by side in the rocking chairs and read them together while the sea breeze keeps us cool. Won’t that be fun?”

  “Maybe in a few days, big sister,” you whispered. Then you excused yourself and went straight to sleep.

  Oh, dear Malka, your body has arrived in Cuba, but your heart is still with Bubbe in Govorovo. I trust we can help you feel better soon. In the meantime, I will keep writing letters to you as if you are far away
, little sister, because it feels that way. And because, after writing so many letters to you all these months while waiting for you to arrive, writing has become a necessity for me—like water, like air, like sunshine. Writing to you has helped and comforted me. It has kept me alive.

  Once you get better, I’ll give these letters to you. They are for you and only for you. But I won’t stop writing. I will start keeping a journal—and I will get you one too! You’re carrying so much sadness, my sister, and I hope that if you can let the paper hold even a bit of it, you will feel better.

  With all my love as always,

  ESTHER

  HAVANA

  February 2, 1939

  Dear Malka,

  The most wonderful thing has happened today while you slept—Mama told me how proud she was of me. When I showed her the dresses I’d made with Señora Graciela’s sewing machine, she was surprised I could sew so well. And when I gave her a dress I’d sewn for her, soft and flowing, with a pattern of little flowers and buttons down the front, her face lit up. She ran to the bedroom and came back wearing it.

  “Esther, my daughter, this dress is so comfortable! You put my thimble to good use. You even learned to sew on a machine. All those times I was showing you how to sew, I didn’t think you were paying any attention. But it turns out you were!”

  Then she kissed my forehead and said how happy she was about all that I’d accomplished. It was the first time I felt loved by Mama and not just tolerated.

  “I hope you will come to love Cuba one day, Mama,” I told her. “And that you will no longer be angry with Papa and me.”

  “I decided on the boat here that I can’t be angry anymore. I am no longer angry at you. But I am angry that the world has put us in this horrible situation. Most of all, I’m scared for Bubbe and for so many people back home.”